He flicked her ankle a brief, irritated glance, thin lips flattening. “Communication is what relationships are built on.”
“We don’t have a relationship, Nick. We’re not friends and we’re sure as hell never going to be lovers. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me back my diary.”
“Lovers?” He stuffed the last of his honey pikelet into his mouth and chewed with what would have been a contemplative expression on anyone else. On him, it was more aggravating shit-stirring then anything. “I was thinking we’d be more ‘friends who f**k’. But ‘lovers’ does have a certain ring to it.”
She bit her tongue to hold back the retort that sprang to her lips. Best not to encourage him, or contradict. He might take it as a challenge.
“I thought we could talk about your daddy issues,” he announced.
God, but she hated him. “I don’t have any daddy issues.”
“Your diary says otherwise. Why don’t I grab it, so we can read over the stuff I’m talking about?”
Her stomach roiled. Two years’ worth of her most personal thoughts and feelings laid bare. All her hopes and dreams, along with the occasional rant. Well, maybe more than the occasional rant. Secret things she would have never said to another living soul. He would smash the sanctity of that outlet for shits and giggles. Every tendon in her body tightened, fingers clenching closed. “Nick, please. Don’t.”
“Hmm?” He busily licked his fingers clean.
“Please. Don’t read my diary. Find some other way to mess with me. I can’t …”
The man sat forward in his seat, his sudden focus on her unnerving. “You can’t what?”
How to say it? She felt drained. He wouldn’t give her diary back. For all his little niceties, he wanted to f**k with her head as a way to get at her body. That much was obvious.
Nick stood and moved over to her side, sat down. “Talk to me.”
She opened her mouth but for once the words deserted her. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.
“Ros?” He waited, hovering.
“Nothing.”
Silence reigned supreme for a moment.
He cleared his throat. “Why don’t we get out of here for a while? Go for a jog?
“A jog?” she asked, voice laced with disbelief.
“Yes. A slow one. Come on, I’ll find you some sneakers. I think we could both use some fresh air.”
***
Nick loped along like a dingo. By putting in a minute amount of effort he would have left her for dead, easily. Instead he jogged along beside her, looking far too fit in his cargo shorts and T-shirt. A cap sat on his head, the tops of his ears stained pink from the sun. Definitely descended from English or Irish stock. He had a long-limbed, athletic build. She was more of a robust peasant, herself.
Down the gravel driveway they went, heading toward the lonely stretch of road leading into the eco-lodge. It was nice to be outside. The scent of eucalyptus from the gums and some sweet nectar carried on the breeze. Not everything waited for spring to arrive. Warmth from the sun permeated her shirt. Sweat already dampened her back. Her cheeks felt like glowing braziers.
“I’ll race you to that tree.” He pointed to a big old jacaranda gracing the side of the road about twenty meters away.
“You’ll win,” she puffed.
“I’ll give you a head start. Go.” His hand drew back and then swung. Too late she realized his intention. The palm of his hand collided with her jean-clad ass in a flesh-shaking smack. Her left butt cheek howled bloody murder. “Go!”
“Ow!” She took off to elude his hand more than anything, throwing herself in the general direction of the tree. “Damn it. This is not a fair competition.”
“Keep going.”
She’d covered half the distance when he started after her. Attempting to run and look over her shoulder at the same time slowed her down, but keeping an eye on him had become second nature. Who knew what he’d get up to next?
A wide grin split his face, appearing alarmingly wolfish. His long legs ate up the distance with ease. Her heart raced faster than her feet could manage.
“I’m gonna catch you, Ros,” he taunted, as though stating the obvious was clever. Fingers hooked into the back waistband of her jeans and tugged her to an abrupt halt. His arm snaked around her waist, steadying her before her forward momentum could put her face first in the dirt. “Got you. See that tree?”
She squirmed and pushed at his arm, out of habit more than anything else. He wasn’t hurting her.
“The one we were racing to?” she asked.
“I’m a zombie and you have to climb that tree to get away from me.”
“No. You’re delusional, and I’m not climbing the tree.”
His breath warmed the side of her neck. “If I catch you I get to bite you again. That’s what infected do.”
Teeth snapped beside her ear in warning and she recoiled with a grimace. “Get off me, Nick.”
“Go. Climb. You said you’d be fine without me, so show me.” He released her with an overly dramatic moan. “Grrr …”
“Nick.”
“Argh.” He curled his top lip and snarled. “Hungry for girl flesh.”
“Infected can’t talk.”
“I’m special. Climb.”
“Oh, you’re unique alright.”
“Better move.” His hand landed again on her rear with an almighty crack. It stung like nobody’s business. Like he’d lit a fire in her bloody jeans.
“Ouch!” She rubbed at her aggrieved butt with both hands. “Stop doing that!”
“Climb. Or I’m biting.”
She hated him so hard.
The tree stood a good three stories tall, a majestic old beauty. Come spring it would be ablaze with purple blooms. Today it was mostly bare. The fork of the tree’s big branches sat about a meter off the ground, just high enough to be a problem. A suitable handhold branch stretched out a bit above her head. Ros wrapped her hand around it and tested. Good and solid. It should hold her weight.
“You’d be dead twice over by now,” Nick said from behind her. “What’s taking so long?”
“I’m getting there.” She secured both hands around the trunk and raised a foot. Fitting it to the break in the branches was harder than it looked. Muscles in her legs stretched and strained. Her sneaker hovered high above the ground.
Nick sighed. “Have you even climbed a tree before?”